Blood Type
by moonrainer
Summary: A big bad wolf paints the town red at night, and he is hungry.


**A/N** All the characters and places you recognise here are based on J.K. Rowling's Harry Potter series. The story below, however, is entirely my own.

 **Written for** The Quidditch League Fanfiction Competition (S6R11) / Tutshill Tornados - Chaser 2

 **Wordcount** 1017

 **Prompts**  
[theme] Grimm (TV series)  
[object] torn dress  
[word] pattern  
[poem] "300 goats" by Naomi Shihab Nye

 **With thanks to** Quinn (CrazyPlotQueen) & Aliena (pachamama9) for encouragement

 **TW** mention of murder, though no explicit descriptions

* * *

Another frigid night to fall, another blameless life to take.

His eyes were resting on the girl who was still picking flowers a bit too far off the path. It had only taken a little magic to make her forget about the time and where she was supposed to go. She was so delicate and fragile that he could almost see the blood pulsating under her skin.

They were all like this. Because he chose them. They were his special treat. Because every now and again, he needed a fix.

He could feel salvia accumulating in his mouth. Sweet, sweet anticipation. He couldn't say how long he'd been watching her for; it didn't matter. For him, there was nothing but her in this forest.

After a while, she started looking lost, until she stopped in her tracks, eyes wide. He had felt her slowly growing restless, and by now the seed of dread in her stomach had blossomed into panic and despair.

Oh, how he had missed the smell of fear! Licking his lips, he shivered with delight. The craving for her taste was almost overwhelming.

He often wondered about the carelessness. All those children running around on their own… Why was no one worried about them?

 _Well, they know what to do_ , he could hear their parents say. _They_ _'_ _ll stay out of trouble. Anyway, what_ _'_ _s the worst that can happen to them_ here _?_

He chuckled quietly. They had no idea that there were other things out there, dangerous things, only waiting for the little ones to come closer, just close enough.

They might feel a chill, shiver, and huddle together, warm bodies pressing against each other. But no matter how many of them there were, they wouldn't stand a chance. He could end them all. And he would.

Someday, at least. But for now, it was only one at a time. That was the rule. He needed to keep a low profile.

Without making a sound, he followed the little girl deeper into the forest. Soon his next feast would begin. And for a connoisseur like him, its beauty would be sublime.

* * *

A few weeks later, Constable Mark Pritchard took another drag from his cigarette. He was leaning against the cold brick wall of the town's police station after his evening shift, contemplating the state of affairs.

On a Tuesday morning early last month, the body of a girl had been found in a nearby forest.

It had been hard to identify her, but her mother had recognised the red dress, torn but very much her daughter's.

They didn't know for sure what kind of animal had done it. Normally, they'd be able to tell by the tracks, but there were none. Only footprints from a heavy shoe, most likely from the boot of hiker who'd tracked through the woods earlier that day. Still, judging from the wounds, it had probably been a wolf, they'd said.

But Pritchard remained sceptical. After all, no one ever came here to hike. And wolves didn't wear boots.

He had done some research using several databases and news archives, and, unsurprisingly to him, he'd found a pattern. All throughout the Southern part of the country, young children had been disappearing over the past couple of months. He had found record of more than ten cases. Most of them had vanished without a trace, but three of their bodies had been found in forests close to where they had lived. And in the pictures, they all looked strikingly similar.

When he had announced his suspicions to his colleagues, they'd told him he was seeing things. _A mass murderer? Coming_ here _? Don_ _'_ _t be ridiculous. It was a tragic accident, is all. Stop worrying about it and get Alasdair Rockeby to pay that parking ticket of his._

Pritchard, however, refused to let it go. He simply couldn't. The thought of possibly more children facing the same destiny as the little girl kept him up at night, and he felt the urgent need to protect them. He had to do something. _Anything._ If only he knew what.

"Good evening, Constable."

Pritchard jumped and almost hit his head on the lamp that illuminated the back entrance. His eyes manically darting around to find the speaker, he instinctively grabbed his holster.

"It's gotten awfully chilly, hasn't it?"

From the shadow to his right, a large figure emerged. Pritchard blinked and almost screamed in horror as he found himself confronted with what he could only describe as a wolf man. He would have mistaken him for a homeless person due to his long, unkempt hair and shabby clothing, had it not been for the claws he had as hands and what looked like fur covering his skin.

But this couldn't be. This wasn't real.

"As I understand it, you've been examining my … guilty pleasures," the beast said, approaching him with a gracefulness that Pritchard wouldn't have thought possible.

He wanted to say something, but the words got stuck in his throat.

The creature's toothy grin looked like a horrible grimace.

"And as much as that flatters me, I don't like it at all."

Pritchard tried to aim his gun at his opponent, but somehow his hands wouldn't obey him and stayed where they were; it was as if he was paralysed. This had to be a dream.

Even though the wolf man was coming uncomfortably close, Pritchard couldn't move. He felt his chest constrict in panic as he tried to come up with a plan to get out of the situation. His colleagues had all gone home by now, and there wasn't enough time to call anyone. Pritchard's mind went blank; he could hear the blood rushing through his ears.

The beast was now so close to him that he could see that it also had whiskers on its face. When it next spoke, its acidic breath hit Pritchard's face. "I'm afraid you'll have to go."

Before Pritchard could ask what it meant by that, but the wolf monster's claws were already closing around his neck.

He was dead before his half-smoked cigarette hit the ground.

* * *

 **A/N** This fic was heavily inspired by the first episode of Grimm (the TV series). I watched it after receiving this round's prompt because I'd never heard of the show before. Turns out it isn't for me, but that only motivated me to write something more up my alley. So here you go, and remember: Keep to the path and don't let the big bad wolf get you.


End file.
